Unrequited
by Busby's Teapot
Summary: In which France discovers Jane Austen and the fact England isn't entirely emotionally constipated. Well, sort of. FrUK, oneshot.


**Unrequited**

**By Busby' Teapot**

_In which France discovers Jane Austen and the fact England isn't entirely emotionally constipated - he can be romantic! Sort of. _**  
**

"Hah well at least my haircut does not predate the existence of my country!"

"Well at least I don't look like a bearded lady, you snot-nosed, cheese-eating, slimy serial surrenderer!"

Rest assured, nobody understood the relationship between England and France. For two people who claimed to hate one another, and who argued constantly, they were surprisingly close.

The other six G8 members watched in despair (well those that were paying attention, Italy had fallen asleep, Russia was laughing, and America was just being his usual obnoxious self) as the meeting descended into further chaos as the strange, yet eloquent jibes flew back and forth, growing progressively louder in volume.

"Pah! Oh please, mon cher, you could not charm you way out of a paper bag!"

"That's because I've never made an attempt to charm you, frog breath! I can assure you, I can be quite charming when the situation calls for it. Ever heard of Darcy? Knightley? Wentworth?"

Smiling in satisfaction, he promptly sat down as he realised France could offer no response. France scowled, and slouched into his own chair. Germany sighed in relief, shifting, about to stand and return some semblance of order to the meeting, then of course America had to open his big, fat, hamburger-filled mouth.

"Dude, aren't they those boring old limey books we made into movies that were still kind of majorly dull?"

"They're not boring, they are art!" England shouted, his chair falling to the floor with a clatter as he jumped up to glare at America. "Something your gluttonous, rotting brain fails to understand, especially when you make films and butcher them!"

And they were off again. Things escalated into another pointless argument, France occasionally chipping in a remark in defence of the culture of the very country with whom he had just been arguing.

"I agree with everything America-san says!"

"No way, Russia is the best, da?"

"PASTAAA!"

Germany let his head drop onto the table in surrender, ignoring the noise around him and suppressing his growing urge to cry.

* * *

Humming happily to himself as he made his way back to the hotel, France took a brief second to admire himself in a window. His reflection, smirking like the cat that got the cream, proudly bore the lipstick smudges on most of his visible skin (and quite a lot of parts that, for once, were covered with clothes), the result of his rather –ahem- successful date.

Upon realising that the window in question belonged to one of New York's DVD rental shops, a thought from the meeting earlier came to his mind, and he slipped inside. Bypassing all the trite Hollywood action films, he soon found the section he was looking for.

Arthur would often wax lyrical about the works of his celebrated authoress, and as such, France was quite familiar with the titles of Jane Austen's works, though he had yet to actually get around to reading them. Films he found, were no comparison, but Arthur's comment had piqued his interest, so at that moment, the films and TV adaptations would have to do.

He paid the brooding teenager behind the desk, flashing them one of his trademark knee-weakingly charming smiles and headed back out onto the street.

Before long, he was settled comfortably on his bed, reclined against the headboard in his favourite silken pyjamas and ready to watch the first of his films: _Persuasion_.

* * *

Francis sniffled into his fifteenth tissue, eyes watering steadily as he continued to watch the plight of poor Anne Elliot. He had spent much of his time on the verge of sobbing, occasionally doing so whilst spitting out curses directed at Arthur.

_"You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope."_

His sniffles died away momentarily, but only in preparation for the dam that broke, unleashing a tidal wave of tears, wailing and nonsensical blubbering, interspersed with the odd slurred French word.

Francis smiled through his tears as the film, thankfully, ended on a happy note. Still, he thought, even the pain in love had a certain beauty to it.

He should know.

With a sigh, he noticed it was not quite eleven o'clock yet and so, he reached for the case of _Pride & Prejudice_, with the intent of perhaps watching just the first episode before settling in for the night.

* * *

Francis, having mostly cried himself out during _Persuasion_ was watching the story of Elizabeth and Darcy in a less teary, though just as vocal (perhaps even more so) fashion.

_"…how ardently I admire and love you."_

Francis gasped. "Darcy!" he cried, shaking his fist menacingly at the screen. "You can't be all stuck up and prideful and then come out with something like _that!_ You have to charm her, you utter idiot of an Englishman!"

_"You are the last man in the world whom I could ever marry!"_

Francis was scandalised. "Lizzy!" he chastised, "There's no need to be so cruel! Sure tha man's a bit of an arse, but have you seen his actual derriere? He's just confessed his love to you, yes he was a bit of a bastard about it, but show some compassion. You're both _English_, if you were both nice and upfront about your feelings then you would implode!"

Panting heavily, he cursed the fact that he had allowed himself to get so worked up and emotional over an English story.

He would be having words with Arthur.

With a sigh, he realised that he had gotten sucked in and watch all three episodes on the first disc and now it was approaching two o'clock. He turned everything off, ready to get a least a little of his precious beauty sleep in preparation for the fourth day of the conference.

* * *

That morning, as the nations tucked into the breakfast buffet in their conference room, awaiting Germany to call the official 9 o'clock start time, it became apparent, though not immediately so (nor to the more oblivious such as America and Italy) that France was not quite his usual perfect self. England of course, was quick to point this out in his typically tactful manner.

"Hey frog face, what's up with you? UN declared compulsory celibacy for all un-married under 25's?"

"No, I am merely tired, and it is _your_ fault," he replied accusingly, stabbing his finger in the other blond's chest.

"Pardon? How the bloody hell is you being tired my fault?"

"Two reasons," France said simply, "_Persuasion_, and _Pride & Prejudice_."

"Ahh, so you finally deigned to read Jane Austen then." England's smirk disappeared and he frowned slightly into his teacup. "But how on earth did you manage to read those two last night?"

"I didn't; I watched the films."

England sharply inhaled his tea and started coughing, thumping his chest. France just watched his pink face with mild amusement, until England had recovered enough to glare at him.

"I'm fine thanks," he muttered sarcastically. "And please tell me you at least watched the BBC adaptation of _Pride & Prejudice_."

"Indeed I did, and I assure you, mon cher, that I fully intend to read the books as soon as I return home."

"Good," England said, a small smile twitching at his lips. "And what do you think of them anyway?"

"Excellent, they are filled with such frivolity, yet depth. Sometimes I forget the heart-wrenching beauty in unrequited love and…"

He trailed off, eyes widening with a slight epiphany that England either failed to notice or did not acknowledge.

"And?" he prompted, quirking one of his generously sized eyebrows.

France did not reply as he stared blankly at Arthur, mind struggling to compute. Because it just couldn't be the case, could it? The culture of the nation often reflected the mood of its personification (and in turn, the opposite applied too). So if Jane Austen's books were tales of unrequited love, with agonised suitors whose partners were oblivious to their feelings, did that mean, in the early nineteenth century at least, that Arthur felt the same?

Heart pounding in his ears, the question slipped out without thinking. "Arthur, are you perhaps in love?"

Though he only had eyes for Arthur, he sensed the others freeze around him, and it was only then he had realised his mistake. He was in a meeting and had called the man before him by his name, a practice only reserved for public outings, or as an expression of intimacy.

In his thoughts, he had always been Arthur, but he was always careful not to let it slip.

Fortunately, it seemed Arthur himself, failed to notice, as he had rapidly paled, a look of horror now gracing his features. Then he let out a sigh, his expression morphing into one of resignation.

"Yes," he said simply. After a moment's pause, he continued, "There is someone I love very dearly indeed, yet they are neither aware of my affections towards them, nor, I am afraid, do I have any chance of them being returned, so I've long since accepted my life of agony."

He punctuated his statement with a raw, wry laugh that broke Francis' heart.

"Whoa dude, that sucks," America said, providing some of his indispensible insight. "Who is it? A nation?"

"Yes, he's a nation," England ground out, a blush dusting his cheeks as he seemed to realise he was the centre of attention.

"Care to tell us any more of the deets?"

"He obviously doesn't want to tell us America, or he wouldn't have kept it a secret since the nineteenth century!" France retorted.

"Oh yeah, well if he really wanted to keep it a secret, he wouldn't have let it become such a major part of his culture now, would he?"

A loud thumping stopped the argument from further developing, and all eyes moved to Germany, stood at the head of the table, face set in a stern manner.

"The meeting is due to begin. There is to be no further discussion of this matter until the end. Understood?"

The murmured assents proved meaningless, as the G8 meeting was permeated with whispered speculations, even England chipped in occasionally, usually to refute a particularly illogical or horrendous guess ("Spain really? That was a brief fling in the 16th Century that was destroyed by the whole privateering thing. At best, we're now friends."). France was unusually quiet in the affair, barely passing comment, which was noted upon by Italy, of all people. He of course passed his lack of involvement due to his doubt that the Englishman could truly understand 'l'amour'. This then led to an argument over whether England was 'emotionally constipated' or not, and soon the meeting descended into the chaotic status quo.

By lunch time, Germany had given up completely, partially due to his fast-encroaching headache, and so ended the Saturday meeting as a half day, with a warning that Monday's meeting had best be productive.

With little else to do, Francis retired to his room. America had proposed an excursion for everyone around New York, but he had politely declined, not feeling up to it. A light knock on his door interrupted him as he settled down, ready to watch the remainder of _Pride & Prejudice_. He opened to find none other than Arthur, looking a little more cautious than normal.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked. "I did not feel up to an afternoon of further speculation and pestering."

Francis gave a nod in understanding, moving aside to let him in. "I was just about to watch more _Pride & Prejudice_, if that's okay?"

Arthur gave a small smile, settling into the rather uncomfortable chair beside the bed.

"Don't be silly," Francis sighed and patted the spot beside him on the bed. "It is much more comfortable up here, and the view is much better, no?"

Arthur moved, though not without muttering something that sounded suspiciously like 'pervert' under his breath, despite the innocence of the gesture (though given this was Francis, he's quite right in suspecting the innocence of anything involving him and a bed).

The three hours soon turned into seven as Francis found himself watching the four episodes of _Emma_, constantly amused by the little scathing comments Arthur muttered to himself. The Brits were most definitely masters of self-depreciating humour. Now his secret was largely out, the nation beside him had no qualms in berating himself for his own stupidity and ridiculing the excessive social customs of his Regency era.

"But isn't this era regarded as the height of the gentlemanly behaviour you pride yourself on?" Francis had taunted at one point.

Arthur just scoffed in reply. "I may pride myself on being a gentleman, frog, but that doesn't mean I feel the constant need to uphold 'proper' decorum. People can think what they wish of me."

After they had finished, upon Francis' offer, the two headed out to eat, dropping off the DVDs at the store on the way.

"You know," Francis mused, once they were sat down in the Italian restaurant, browsing the menu. "As the pays d'amour, I could help you."

Eying him curiously over the menu, Arthur gave a sigh. "How?"

"I'm sure I could help you win the heart of your beloved," he replied with a genuine smile.

Arthur frowned, his prominent eyebrows swooping together and his thin lips pursing in suspicion.

"Why are you being so nice?"

"Because."

"That's not a real answer, you arse!"

Francis sighed, "Do you really want to know?"

"I asked, didn't I?" was his sardonic reply.

"Truth is," he began, meeting Arthur's bright green eyes, a rare serious expression on his face, "Is that I sympathise. I too have been in love with someone for a long time, with no hope of return."

There was a moment's silence, and then Arthur scoffed. "As if! You prance around, flirting up a storm and seducing every Tom, Dick and Harry and yet you can't charm this one person? I'm sorry, but I really doubt that."

He just stared at the Englishman, hurt flickering in his eyes, "Sorry Arthur, but I'm completely serious on this one."

He sobered up immediately, "You are?"He winced, more to himself than anything. "I apologise then, it's horrendous, isn't it?"

Francis nodded and the two lapsed into silence, turning their attention back to their menus. It was after they had placed their order that Arthur spoke up once more.

"Quite the sorry pair, aren't we?"

Chuckling bitterly, he gave a hum of assent.

"Then I have a proposal to make," Arthur said. "We tell each other the cause of our pain, and be sad sacks together."

At this Francis outright laughed; dear Arthur had such a way with words. "At the same time?"

Setting his jaw in a determined fashion, Arthur locked eyes with him. "Ready?"

Francis gave a brief jerk of his head, unable to do more as his heart began thumping in anticipation. This was it. He was about to tell his centuries old secret to Arthur, of all people, the last person he would have expected to admit it to.

3…2…1…

"You."

"Tu."

Both froze, their eyes widening as they realised the truth. He… what… Arthur loved _him._ But surely that would be too good to be true?

Then, Arthur started to laugh, a light airy sound that had Francis transfixed as those emerald eyes danced with mirth. Unable to help himself, he soon joined in and the pair of them descended into hysterics, drawing wary looks from the restaurant's other patrons.

Once they had stopped, Arthur, still grinning, wiped a tear from the corner of his eye and said, "My, what utter idiots we are."

Beaming in reply, Francis reached across and clasped his hand. "Ah, but I am your idiot, and you are mine."

He got an eye roll for that.

"Sappy get."

FIN

**Just a silly little something that got stuck in my head. I love the idea of Francis getting over emotional watching romantic films, and then this happens... Oh well, I hope you enjoyed it a least! Title isn't my favourite, but meh, I'm going out for my friend's 18th in like, 10 minutes. **

**If there's any British-isms you're unsure on (I don't think there's too many, if any uncommon ones) feel free to ask. **

**Mucho Amor!**

**-Teapot**


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